It's the end of the world...with commercials

I freely admit to being a fan of zombie movies, and worse yet, my tastes run toward the cheesy. I like the appallingly bad movies that may have had a budget running into thousands of dollars. "The Walking Dead" by comparison, has higher production values and actual actors.

But tonight I tried to branch off into the AMC production of "Doomsday Preppers" a look at those of who absolutely relish the idea of a global apocalypse. I managed to stay with it all of three minutes. When they highlighted the couple who planned to spend the weekend - not playing golf or going fishing - but instead testing their house to see how bullet proof it was, well, I had to leave. These people are quite possibly insane.

I don't say that lightly. There are drugs for treating this kind of dementia, and these people are in dire need of medication. Let's approach this from both an historical and personal perspective.

Our planet and our people have had some truly apocalyptic events. The Black Death decimated the population of Europe and lead to fundamental societal changes. More recently, Spanish influenza killed more people during the First World War than were killed in combat. The planet has has tsunamis, earthquakes, and meteorite impacts. The Bronze Age ended in calamitous fashion, and we still do not know why.

But how often have these cataclysmic events occurred? Their rarity would seem to indicate that the chance of a world-wide apocalypse in our lifetime is relatively remote. It's a low probability event. We probably stand a much better chance of being hit by lightning.

I said that this has a personal dimension too, and to explain that, I have to delve into my own history. When I was a child, my mother listened to the Catherine Kuhlman radio hour every morning while we had breakfast. Kuhlman was an evangelist and faith healer, and one of Pittsburgh's AM radio stations broadcasted her show. I must have been 10 or 11 when she predicted the end of the world would arrive in 1971 or 1972.

It's laughable now, but at the time she scared me witless. Adults were authority figures and since my mother listened to Kuhlman, she must have had a good reason to do so. By extension, Kuhlman had authority too. She scared the beejeebers out of me. I hadn't made any great plans for my life since at 10 years old a 'plan' consisted of what to do after school, but I knew I wanted to live far past 1972.

Kids don't intellectualize their fears. They're not able to discuss them rationally with adults, so they remain internalized rather than verbalized. It says much about the power of that broadcast when I can remember it after 50 years.

And that brings us back around to the "Doomsday Preppers." I think it's wrong of AMC to air this kind of show, though I whole-heartedly support their right to do so. It's wrong because it will frighten children in terrible ways. Sure, zombie movies can have their scary moments, but when the subject matter is portrayed in the context of a 'reality' show, a kid won't know enough to realize it's mostly bullshit.

Guns & Gardens

Yes, it's cheesy, low-budget video of the zombie apocalypse, but it has wonderful stuff like this:

"They're putting heads on sticks in the parking lot! Lord of the Flies ain't got nothing on Wal-Mart."

YouTube: Guns & Gardens

Mister Kibbles

Audrey slammed the front door so hard that it rattled the pictures hanging on the wall. She quickly locked it, then sagged against the solid piece of oak for support. Her leg muscles burned and she gasped for breath, her lungs heaving from the long run home. Her purse was out on the street somewhere along with the bag of groceries from the FoodMart. When that horrid man grabbed at her, she'd lost everything trying to get away.

He stumbled out of a doorway. At first, she thought he was just another drunk. It wasn't the best neighborhood but it was mostly safe during the day. But then he'd lunged at her, narrowly missing as he tried to grab her arm. His fingernails raked along her skin, though, and his hands were filthy. She dropped the bag and the purse and simply ran.

At home, she double checked to see that the doors and windows were locked. Then she took a shower and plastered the cut with antiseptic, topping it was a bandage. It was almost dinner time and Don would be home soon. He'd know what to do. She sat on the bed and tried calling 911 but it just rang and rang. She gave up, rose to lock the bedroom door, and then retreated back to the bed.

She felt awfully tired. Mister Kibbles, Audrey's tabby cat, purred and meowed. He wanted attention. But when she stretched out on the bed, he was content to snuggle up against her for a nap. She dozed off quickly.

Audrey woke up hungry, terribly hungry, her belly gnawing in a way she'd never experienced before. The emptiness demanded to be filled.

Mister Kibbles hissed at her. He backed away slowly, then bolted. There was no escape. The door was still closed and locked.

She tried to talk to him, but only an odd, low moan escaped her lips. The cat was in a frenzy, running in circles and throwing himself at the glass in the window. Part of her wanted to calm him, but another, stronger part just wanted to...bite. Finally, he scrambled under the bureau and hid there growling. She knelt down and reached for him. He scratched her twice, then bit deeply into her thumb, his teeth crunching on bone. Oddly, this didn't hurt. She grabbed him with her other hand and dragged him out. His claws slashed her arm again and again.

That small, rational part of her mind contracted, gibbering in horror at what was happening. But she was powerless to stop it. The hunger over-ruled all. She lifted Mister Kibbles toward her mouth. His razor like claws left deep furrows in her face and cut through her left eye. She brought him to her mouth and then....and then....

The little voice in her head said, "But I'm a vegetarian, dammit! This can't be happening!"

When it was over, only a few bones remained of Mister Kibbles. His crushed skull and some tufts of fur lay on the floor at her feet. He didn't have enough meat to satisfy the hunger, but Don would be home for dinner.
Happy Halloween!

Happy Halloween!

What? You thought it was over? This was my first zombie story. It's a narrative without dialog, partly because I'm not good at dialog (something I've been practicing with an eye toward improvement) and partly because I really find Suzie unlikeable.

I was intrigued by the description of a popular cult movie as "three interlocking tales of mayhem" and I couldn't resist something in a similar vein. So if this is the first and Eddie's Tale is the second, that must mean a third is on the way. Expect it by Christmas. Bonus points if you can name the movie!

There's a good chance I'll re-work this piece, shortening it and adding dialog, but that will have to wait for some spare time.



Zombie Café

Suzy was a petite blond with shoulder-length hair, high cheek bones and an upturned nose. Her eyes sparkled and she was in the habit of lightly touching people as she talked. People assumed she was a cheerleader because she was always so perky. She flashed a winning smile. It was perfect camouflage for the shark within. Suzy was full time student, part time barista, and an opportunistic thief. Some people are only pretty on the outside.

She worked in Rachel's Café, where big painted letters spelled out the shop's name in the front window. Each letter included a little scene with lots of flowers, castles, unicorns, and other hippy trash. It was very artsy-fartsy and about as far as possible from the big, sterile corporate coffee house down the street. Mismatched furniture made it look like an second rate antique shop. She hated the job for its snobby customers and equally snobby staff. The manager was overly 'friendly' and probably related to an octopus. It seemed he had that many hands. College sucked. The job sucked. The only relief was that Rachel's sold the best damn coffee in town and Suzy loved it. The odd cuppa taken at break time was sheer joy. She looked forward to putting college behind her and getting out into the world with a real job, one where she could get her hands on some real money. A career in banking or politics might feed her avarice.

Invariably polite and attentive, Suzy short changed customers whenever possible. Guys were the easiest because their attention was riveted on her face or her boobs. She lifted a little cash from the till once in a while, but she was smart enough to avoid doing it regularly. Shoplifting supplemented her wardrobe. She knew which stores had security and which would avoid prosecution.

She wasn't above stealing cash from a co-worker's purse left unattended in the break room, and once she found a bag of amphetamines. Suzy hid the drugs in a hollow behind a loose tile in the ladies room. She thought of it as her safe. Double-sided adhesive tape held the tile in place and a dab of toothpaste covered the cracked grout. It was perfect.

She used people, belittling them privately with sarcastic nicknames. Friends, acquaintances, co-workers, professors – all of them were merely stepping stones. For instance, Pretty Boy, a grad student and her soon-to-be-discarded boyfriend, wrote most of her term papers. Guys were so easy to manipulate after she'd slept with them a few times. She had no old friends or long-term boyfriends because people discovered that despite her cheery, warm demeanor, she was inwardly cold and ruthless.

Her customers were the easiest to categorize. The middle-aged bikers on breathtakingly expensive Harleys were the Mild Bunch. Mr. Friendly was smooth and talkative, with perfect hair, teeth, and clothes. He talked loudly on a cellphone and never failed to mention his BMW. The dorky cyclist was Eddy Jerkx, who once had the audacity to steal the tip jar when her back was turned. He was a thief, but a stupid one, which only earned him contempt from Suzy. He did it in front of three other customers and not one of them said a word. Fussy Woman was one of the three. She always ordered a double skinny latte – no foam – and she had a fit if there was a bubble atop the drink. She didn't tip, either. The pretentious bitch staked out a four-top near the window, spreading books, papers, and the inevitable laptop across it. She stayed most of the morning, frowning at the computer and furiously pounding on the keys.

Businessmen either ignored her or offered her a 'position' in their firms. Tips varied according to their illusions about getting into her pants. They were the real reason she worked at Rachel's. Suzy carefully observed their hands for wedding rings. More importantly, she noted when they chatted her up and the wedding bands disappeared. They offered to 'interview' her over drinks. So predictable. The guys were easy marks, but again, she didn't get greedy. A diamond cuff link here, a Rolex there, and just recently an expensive necklace and earrings when a fool took her to his home while wifey was out of town. All the jewelry was tucked away with the amphetamines in the ladies room safe.

Suzy lived in a small apartment within walking distance of campus. It was an old house that had been divided into student apartments. The elderly owners lived on the first floor. Suzy's place was on the third floor, up creaking wooden stairs past Cartman and Bob, two gay guys who spent their off hours smoking pot, playing video games, and listening to an endless succession of rock tunes. Cartman was big, fat, and obnoxious just like his cartoon namesake, but Bob was sweet.

She was an indifferent housekeeper, a slob, in fact. Dirty dishes were heaped in the sink. The trash can overflowed and a waist-high pile of laundry in the closet threatened to avalanche onto the floor. Pretty Boy hated her apartment, partly due to the mess and partly because Cartman liked to chat him up.

Mid-terms were coming up and she had to study. There was no way around that. Pretty Boy couldn't do it for her. She still had to show up and take the tests, so stealing the speeders had been fortuitous. She could take a few from the stash at work and use them to cram. Mid-term week passed in a blur of work, study, and a few hours of blissful sleep.

Then one morning everything changed. She missed most of it, crashed out in her apartment after mid-terms. Suzy woke up to uncharacteristic silence. No pounding music from downstairs. No faint hints of pot smoke. Just quiet. It was shattered by Cartman's high, wailing scream from the second floor. It choked off abruptly, replaced by grunting and gurgling. Then the stairs creaked as someone began climbing toward her room.

Without thinking, Suzy hid under the pile of clothes in the closet, hardly daring to breathe and hoping that the clothes didn't move from her trembling. Her door banged open and someone wandered around the apartment, knocking over a lamp. The crash almost made her jump and there was a strong temptation to run. Footsteps approached the closet and stopped. She didn't breathe until they wandered off, finally clumping downstairs. Hours later, she crept to the window as screams rose from the street. Suzy watched in horror as zombies caught...and ate...a middle-aged woman. They bit off chunks of flesh while the woman still screamed.

She stayed in her room without making a sound, only turning on a radio for news. And that news was universally bad as hordes of the walking dead overran the town. The water and electricity went off on the third day. She was terrified at night and doled out the rest of the speed. Bursts of gunfire added to her anxiety. Her only thought was to stay alert, stay awake, and stay alive. When her body simply had to sleep, she crawled under the reeking pile of laundry. After days without a shower, the smell just didn't bother her anymore.

The food ran out after five days. Just after dawn, Suzy crept down the stair and thought about raiding Cartman and Bob's apartment, but the appalling stench kept her from going inside. The door hung open and flies covered the walls.

On the street, she moved like a rat from one hiding place to another. She scurried only a few yards at a time, her senses alert and twitching from fear and the after-effects of the amphetamines. Doorways, trash cans, and hedges all provided concealment. Suzy saw a few zombies far down one cross street. She waited until none were facing her direction and ran across the intersection. The landscaping in a neatly tended front yard offered a safe hide while she watched her back trail. None of the zombies had seen her.

Suzy had a plan. She'd thought about it while in her apartment. She'd take a car and get out of town. There were plenty of them just sitting on the street with their doors open and keys still in the ignition. The owners had been eaten...or worse. But first she needed to recover the diamond necklace, earrings, and other jewelry at Rachel's Café. It was highly unlikely that the original owners would make any complaints at this point, and besides, she'd need it to make a fresh start. Driving a car to the café would attract unwanted attention, so she crept along on foot.

The businesses she passed probably had plenty of cash in the tills, but without a working government to back it, paper money simply became legal tinder, good for starting campfires but not much else. There was one jewelry store along her route, but it was locked up tight with security screens in place. She passed a gun shop too, and looked inside hoping to find a shotgun, but the store had been picked clean. No guns, no ammunition, not even a bow and arrow remained.

At the café, one plate glass window was smashed and some of the flowery letters were gone. The front door was shattered too, and one hinge was broken. Suzy quietly stepped past it and carefully looked for more shambling zombies. The shop was empty. She walked to the ladies room quickly and popped the tile loose. Stuffing the pills and the jewelry into her bag, she started back toward the door, and stopped abruptly when she saw another person silhouetted in the light from the street. A one-armed walking corpse was in the shop.

Fussy Woman stood at the counter, looking up at the menu and waving her remaining arm. She moaned. Suzy edged behind the counter, hoping to keep it between them. Fussy Woman spotted her, moaned even louder, and waggled her arm more frantically. In desperation, Suzy filled a cup with cold, slimy coffee from the urn. Chunks of mold floated to the surface. It was disgusting. She put it on the countertop, careful to stay out of the zombie's reach.

After staring at it for a long moment and grunting twice, Fussy Woman picked up the cup and wandered off. She sat at a window table, looking intently at the blank screen of a broken laptop while stabbing clumsy fingers at the keys.

Suzy couldn't leave. Zombies streamed down the street, heading toward the café. One by one they walked in the doorway.

Mr. Friendly lurched inside as far as the counter where he stood like a post. His lips were gone, leaving a parody of a ghastly smile on his face. Bits of rotting flesh stuck to his perfect teeth. He smelled of decay and Armani. She gave him a cup too, but he didn't move away until the corpse behind him started pushing. He lifted the cup to his mouth and poured most of the coffee down over his shirt. It formed a puddle on the floor. Mr. Friendly shuffled to rejoin the line.

As each reeking corpse arrived at the counter, Suzy poured another cup of coffee and quickly set it down on the counter, stepping back to stay out of reach. The café was filling up. She glanced toward the street and that's when it hit her. The broken window left just part of the store name. Now it spelled out “hel's Café. She was Hell's own barista, wondering in mounting horror what would happen when the coffee ran out.

Eddie's Tale: Part Four

Here's the last part of Eddie's tale. As I said to Fritz, it could meander on for quite a while, but sometimes the best thing to do is keep it to the bare necessities. Truthfully, Eddie's story is just one part of a larger one. A related story will be posted tomorrow. It was actually the first in the series. And yes, that means more are on the way.




PART FOUR: Thursday

Eddie started awake to discover sunlight coming through the skylights above. Two zombies stood silently on the opposite catwalk. One stared hungrily at him and Donna. The other watched the pigeons fluttering from beam to beam overhead. Down below was a pile of bodies. As Eddie watched, a hand twitched, so they weren't all dead. He shook Donna to wake her. She didn't respond. Only then did he notice how cold she was, and to his utter horror, her skin was light gray. He scrambled to his feet and snatched up the pistol. Donna never moved. Her head was slumped forward onto her chest, and as far as Eddie could tell, she wasn't breathing. He took a step toward her just as her eyes opened wide. For a split second, yellow pupils regarded him with hungry ferocity. She leaped at him then, her fingers like talons and her teeth bared. He fired twice. The first round hit squarely in the middle of her chest, knocking her down. Before she could get up, the second one went through her forehead. The pistol's slide locked open. It was out of ammunition.

Eddie started screaming, his wails a tangle of guilt, fear, rage, and despair. In the end, rage won.


The Present

In the first days, he'd killed zombies again and again, as heedless of his own safety as any berserker on a battlefield. But on this chilly, foggy morning, only a tiny ember of that all-consuming rage remained burning in his chest, a reminder of all he'd lost. They'd taken Donna. They'd taken Dog. Now they were going to pay and keep paying until his hate was gone.

He shifted into the big ring, grasped the machete tightly in his right hand, and prepared to attack.

Eddie's Tale: Part Three

For those of you (like Lemmiwinks!) with little patience, this story will end tomorrow. That's Thursday in Amurrican, but I have no idea what day that will be in Oz. Saturday? Who knows.

So I hope you enjoy today's part three. While you're reading it, I'll be out in the kitchen on my knees again, cementing ceramic tile to the floor. When I die, I suspect I'll be laying tile in Hell. But at least it'll look nice when it's done....and just for CycleDog readers....there will be photos!



PART THREE: Wednesday

Gunshots woke him just after midnight. Someone was shooting out on the street. He heard screams. Eddie rolled out of bed in his ratty old gym shorts. Without turning on the lights, he went to the window and stood carefully to one side, wary of stray bullets. Down the street, a neighbor stood in his doorway. Muzzle flashes from his shotgun lit up 3 or 4 people trying to get up the front steps. The shotgun blasted again and again, knocking down one person after another. His wife stood behind him, her screams echoing along the deserted street. But what made the hairs on Eddie's neck stand up was the sight of each body rising and going up the steps again. He kept a wooden practice sword – a boken – next to his bed and he reached for it now. Most people thought it was a fancy walking stick and Eddie preferred not to correct them. As he watched, Donna sprinted down the street on her bike, narrowly missing a body. It stood up and followed her.

The bedroom door opened behind him and Dog pushed inside. Even in the dim light filtering in from the street, Eddie knew something was terribly wrong. He turned as Dog reached for him, teeth gnashing and snapping as he moaned softly. Eddie shoved him and Dog tripped over a laundry basket. He was up again quickly and rushed Eddie again. Eddie ducked under his outstretched arms and kicked one of his knees hard. Dog went down. Eddie dodged across the room. Dog immediately started crawling across the floor as he pursued Eddie. The pain had to be excruciating, yet Dog kept on. Eddie reached for the light switch, never taking his eyes off his friend.

The light snapped on. Dog's skin was gray and his eyes were yellow like a wolf. Eddie didn't need any further confirmation that the thing crawling across the floor was no longer his friend.

A gun fired from the hallway. Dog's head exploded and Eddie was deafened by the blast in the small room. Donna shouted, “Come on! Run! The rest of them will be here in seconds!”

There was no time to ask questions. Donna ran down the stairs taking them two at a time with Eddie right behind her. Bodies slammed into the flimsy front door. It wouldn't hold for long. As they went through the kitchen, the door splintered. Eddie grabbed a pair of sneakers but didn't pause to put them on. He just ran. In the back yard, Donna held up a corner of the chain link fence separating the yard from the old factory grounds. They'd cut it months earlier to ride their bikes through that industrial wasteland. Eddie shot through. Running footsteps told him that Donna followed. Other footsteps pounded down the wooden stairs from the kitchen. A half moon hung overhead providing a dim light.

Eddie ran blindly past piles of junk and rusted machinery until Donna yelled, “This way! Hurry!” She turned right into an alleyway and Eddie hurried to keep pace. He clutched the shoes in one hand and the boken in the other. He was too afraid to stop and put them on. His feet were cut and bleeding from the gravel and concrete, and a far-off part of his mind wondered incongruously if he'd need a tetanus shot. He hated shots, especially ones that hurt. “Right,” he thought, “someone is trying to kill me and I'm worried about a stupid tetanus shot.” He realized that Donna knew where to go and that she had a plan. They raced through the factory in near darkness, spurred on by the running footsteps following close behind.

Donna arrived at the base of a ladder, tucked the pistol in her waistband, and started climbing without hesitation. Eddie followed, shoelaces gripped in his teeth and the boken threaded through his shorts. Its weight threatened to pull them down. The laces tasted awful. The ladder went up about 40 feet to a catwalk that had once been used for the glass plant's overhead crane. They'd used it to practice setting up static lines and rappelled from its sides just for fun. They'd even set up a zip line - a sloping piece of steel cable that connected to the far side of the factory floor. Donna reached the top and Eddie scrambled up next to her. Soft moaning rose from the darkness below. Someone else climbed the ladder until Donna aimed and fired. They heard a body hit the ground. A second later, she fired again. The muzzle blast lit a group of six or eight zombies trying to reach the foot of the ladder by climbing over the fallen body.

“How many bullets do you have?” Eddie asked as he quickly laced his shoes. “Where did you get that gun?”

“Two or three. Maybe.” Donna gasped for breath. “Dead security guard at work.” Someone was climbing the ladder again. Eddie drew the boken and waited, his breath rasping in and out. A head reached the top of the ladder and he swung at it, snapping his wrists in a vertical cut to bring crushing force down on the skull. Though it was a practice weapon, a boken used against an unprotected head was lethal. The zombie fell, taking another off the ladder with him.

“Get to the zip line, Donna! I can stop them here! Go! Go!” Donna didn't need to be persuaded. Her footsteps clanged along the catwalk and she was lost in the gloom. Eddie waited for another climber to come in range of the boken. He killed him easily, a man in a business suit this time, then he turned and ran toward the zip line. Without equipment, he'd have to go along it hand-over-hand. The steel cable would tear up his hands and legs, but the alternative – being taken by the zombies – was worse.

He reached the cable and could feel the vibration as Donna moved across it to the opposite wall. Without being told, Donna moved almost silently. Eddie threaded the boken through his shorts again, stepped off the catwalk, and hung below the cable. The steel cut into his palms and fingers. He swung his legs up and over it to support some of his weight. The boken slipped out and fell to the factory floor where it clattered loudly. He cursed silently, then followed after Donna.

When he reached the far side, he could see only a faint outline at first, but as he got closer, he realized Donna's pistol was aimed at him. “It's me!” Eddie hissed. “Don't shoot.” Donna let out a breath and lowered the gun. Eddie climbed onto the catwalk and rubbed his bloody hands on his shorts.

Donna whispered, “I pulled up the static rope, so the only way to get here is across the zip line.” Once, a badly rusted ladder had lead to this catwalk. They used it a few times, but it came crashing down one afternoon, so they relied on the static rope for ascending and rappelling. Suddenly, they felt the vibration as something attempted to follow them across the zip line. It stopped and a moment later the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the concrete floor reached them. Immediately, there was another. And another. “Damn! It's like one of them roach hotels.” Donna whispered, “and we're the bait.” They lost count of the impacts, but were relieved to realize there were no moans coming from below. Perhaps they were all dead.

They were out of danger for the moment. Eddie leaned over the handrail and puked.

They were safe on the catwalk, but without food or water they couldn't stay long. And they were both bleeding from the cable. They huddled together for warmth, Eddie's arms around his girlfriend. Donna slipped the pistol from her waistband and laid it on the catwalk between them. Despite the danger and their fear, as soon as the adrenaline wore off, they both fell asleep. In the darkness, he never noticed the small bite on Donna's arm.

Eddie's Tale: Part Two

PART TWO: Tuesday

The next morning, Eddie locked up his bike outside Rachel's. The fussy Lexus woman stood on the sidewalk talking to a cop. She was complaining about some guy who tried to bite her at a stop light. The cop dutifully wrote the report. She said, “Well, don't just stand there – do something! Go find him and arrest that man!” Eddie coughed loudly, and she glared at him.

He recalled her remark later that day when a guy stepped off the curb into his path. His grayish skin looked awful and he tried to grasp Eddie's arm as he dodged away. It happened again that afternoon, and the second one had blood smeared over his face and hands. Eddie arrived home badly shaken, disturbed even more to discover drops of blood on the kitchen steps.

Dog sat in the kitchen, his hand wrapped in a towel. “Some asshole tried to knock me down!” he complained. “And he cut my hand. Honest-to-god, Eddie, he cut me with a fingernail! I punched the son-of-a-bitch but it didn't even faze him! He just got up and came at me again. Probably a drunk. I got out of there in a hurry.”

As Dog cleaned and bandaged his hand, Eddie told him about the people he'd seen. The last one with his face all bloodied had unnerved Eddie, though he'd never admit it. “Donna's working the evening shift tonight. I'm gonna call her. Maybe I'll go meet her for the ride home.” Eddie hadn't been afraid of the dark since he was a child, but somehow the growing darkness bothered him in a way he couldn't describe.

He called Donna at work and offered to ride home with her. For his effort, he received a hot retort of the I'm-a-big-girl-and-don't-need-your-help variety. After some lame small talk, he rang off.

“I'm gonna make dinner, Dog. There's still some spaghetti sauce left. Want some?”

“Nah. I'm not feeling so hot. I think I'll just go to bed early.”

This wasn't at all like Dog. Eddie had dinner and watched television until the late news was about to start. He clicked off the set as the announcer began droning ominously. Donna still hadn't arrived when he went upstairs. He would stay awake reading until she was home, “big girl” or not.

Eddie's Tale

This is a zombie story for Halloween week. It's divided into four parts, so it will end on Thursday. Those of you with other obligations, some light haunting, ghoulish mayhem, or like me, manning the door dolling out candy - will not miss the end of it.

I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it!


PART ONE: The Present

He coasted downhill on his mountain bike, its well-oiled freewheel almost silent. The light morning fog served to muffle his noise even further. Up ahead, a lone figure clad in rags shuffled along. Eddie gripped the bolo machete tighter and prepared to attack. His tactical position was good, what fighter pilots called “the Hun in the sun.” His target was a slow-moving zombie further down the hill. Her back was turned and she was alone. Eddie planned to pass her on the left, using the razor sharp machete to slice through the hamstrings just above and behind the knee. This didn't require much force, just a tap really, because he didn't want to overbalance, or worse, wedge the machete in her femur and lose it. He'd circle around and finish off the nearly immobilized zombie quite easily. He'd learned not to strike at the head, partly because it took more force, and partly because a last-second miss had thrown him off balance nearly causing a crash. He did not want to be lying in a heap on the ground with hungry zombies in the area.

Eddie learned quickly, adding to his knowledge daily or even hourly. He had incentive: learn or die. A week earlier, he lived a different life.


Monday

Eddie was a bicycle messenger. He made a modest income delivering packages and papers around town, supplementing it with small time drug deals or by boosting goodies out of an unlocked car. He wasn't greedy, just “work averse” and the money covered his minimal expenses for food, mountain biking, and occasional rock climbing trips in the mountains.

That morning, just before everything changed, Eddie stood in line at Rachel's Café, waiting for the insufferable barista to make a long-winded beverage for another equally insufferable customer. She stood in front of him. The woman fumed, hostility rolling off her in waves. Moments earlier, as Eddie rode toward Rachel's, she drove up behind him in a sleek, black Lexus and laid on the horn for at least 10 seconds before doing a right hook in front of his bicycle. He had to brake hard to avoid her. That put her just seconds ahead of him at the café door. “Big deal”, he thought.

She barked her coffee order. Eddie stood near enough to make her uncomfortable. He fished out his filthy handkerchief and blew his nose loudly. She stiffened. He did it again, then coughed into her hair, making the strands move. Still she did nothing.

It was often like this, Eddie noted. In their cars, people felt safe cocooned in a ton or more of steel and glass. They could be real dicks - until they got out. They weren't nearly as aggressive face to face.

The fussy woman collected her coffee, a multi-muddicato caramel whatever, and marched off toward a window table, steadfastly refusing to make eye contact. Eddie noted that she smoothed her hair quickly, perhaps feeling for boogers. The thought made him smile.

He was still smiling as the barista, a petite blond, stood coldly waiting for his order. Her name tag said, "Suzie." They shared an intense mutual dislike. Eddie once asked her to join him for lunch, and she said, "Sorry, I don't hang out with losers." The next day, he stole her tip jar, making sure she knew he'd done it.

Eddie got his coffee, then he too went off for a window table. There was an open one just behind the Lexus bitch. He farted loudly as he sat down. She was up and gone in seconds. He grinned again.

He spent the day delivering various packages, some legal papers to the courthouse, and a few 'roids to a campus jock. In late afternoon, he pedaled home to a house near the defunct glass plant. A forlorn row of houses stood like the last sentinels between the old factory and the growing industrial park to the south. Every house was for sale but few were occupied. Buyers were non-existent. There would be no gentrification here, no reprieve. Sometime soon the houses would be swallowed up. But in the meantime, rent was cheap.

His roomies were already home. Music blasted from open windows. He lived with Donna, his on-again-off-again girlfriend, and his climbing buddy, Dog the Party Animal. Eddie and Donna were edging toward a deeper relationship, a process that was both exhilarating and frightening for both of them. Dog watched in amusement, but wisely kept his mouth shut.

Eddie put his bike in the shed. Donna and Dog were in the living room, arguing as usual. This time it was over football. “Hey!” Eddie yelled to be heard. “You guys bought beer! Great! Do we have any groceries?”

Dog just pointed toward the kitchen since it was Eddie's turn to cook. He found a paper sack on the counter. It had pasta, spaghetti sauce, frozen meatballs, and a bag of salad mix. An open twelve-pack of beer sat next to it. Eddie helped himself to a cold one and started making dinner.

While they ate, Eddie said, “There sure were a lot of cops around the courthouse today. Lots more than usual. Even some state troopers were there, about a dozen of them. They had dogs too. What's going on? Have you guys heard anything?”

“Just a rumor,” Donna began, “about some kind of disease going around.”

“You're full of shit,” Dog countered. The two of them could argue about the time of day. “There isn't any disease. It's just an excuse to bring more cops into town for a big football weekend.”

That much was true. The college homecoming game was coming up on Saturday. The recreational drug business would be brisk this week.

“What was the rumor about the disease?” Eddie asked. He wasn't in the mood for a long, rambling argument.

Donna said, “Just something about a kind of flu that's going around.”

They didn't give it another thought. Monday Night Football was starting.

Welcome to Friday!

Here in Oklahoma, we have the year's major religious celebration next week, one we've been waiting for with breathless anticipation since, oh, July or August when all the decorations first appeared in area stores. Yes, Halloween is upon us once again.

I'm not going to rail against the pagan nature of the holiday. Nor will I dwell on the historical significance of the eve of All Saint's Day, or the usurpation of older, non-Christian celebrations by the early church.

No, I'm all about ghost stories, scary movies, and things that go bump in the night. But I'm not a fan of the gore-fests that get passed off as entertainment. I like the ones that rely on our own imagination - which can be far more frightening than any literal description - because they're ultimately more terrifying. Think "Psycho" or H.P. Lovecraft's "Rats in the Walls."

So, with the above as introduction, here's a little something for your amusement. It's kind of a down payment and a brief segue into next week's theme.




Grannie...

I drove across town, frantic to reach my grandmother's house and terrified of what I might find. She lived alone, lavishing her attention on the flower bed and vegetable garden, where she shooed birds away from the ripening berries. She loved the birds too, except for the ones that pecked at her raspberries, incurring her wrath and a stream of invective in Serbian.

Zombies had attacked my house the previous night. I was trapped, afraid to sprint across the lawn to the detached garage. Just after dawn the police arrived and the shooting began.

I tried to call her but all I got was a busy signal. She seldom used the telephone and would leave it off the hook for hours. What chance would a helpless 80-year-old woman have? Yet there was no denying that she was tough in many ways. She'd emigrated from the "Old Country" as a teenager, and she still had a heavy accent. She cooked, cleaned, and tended her plants by herself and disdained any offers of help.

I pulled up in front of the house, my heart in my throat. A man's body was lying on her front porch partly inside the open door. I climbed out of the truck carrying a baseball bat.

"Grannie?" I called through the door. "Grannie? Are you there?"

"Who is it?" Her voice floated down the hall from the kitchen. She stepped into view, a long carving knife clutched in her bony hand. "Oh, Michael, good! Drag dat ting outta my door. It's letting flies in."

I was relieved she was OK, but I did as I was told, dragging the body by the heels. Then I closed the door and locked it.

Grannie was in the kitchen stirring a huge pot of soup. Loaves of freshly baked bread were lined up on the table. "Sit down,” she said. "Eat. You're too skinny."

"What happened? Are you OK? How did that guy get on your porch?"

She gave me a withering look. "When I was little girl day come down from mountains in winter. Day kill alla sheep, bastard sombie." She says something in Serbian and spits. "My father show me how to kill dem. Quick with a knife through eye or up under chin. I'm short. Chin is easy." She gestured with the knife and grinned.

It was unnerving. The whole city was in a panic, yet this old woman was calmly matter-of-fact as she described how to kill a 'sombie' with a knife.

"Eat," she urged. "The electricity no work. Refrigerator no work. Eat before it go bad."

I sat down at the table, but I had no appetite. She quickly put a bowl of steaming soup and some still warm bread in front of me. Then she looked past me through the kitchen window. "Sombie in my garden," she hissed.

It was true. A zombie lurched through the garden, knocking over tomato stakes and a rose trellis. Grannie was out the back door, her carving knife flashing in the sun. "Shoo!" she yelled. "Shoo! Shoo!"

At least the birds could fly away. The 'sombie' never had a chance.

.